Alas that funk does not mean funky

One indication of my wibbles this last month is that I read eight of the ten Mary Russell books in four weeks, half of them in the last seven days. They're excellent pre and post-op books, I grant you that; interesting enough to satisfy but not demanding at all. In fact I'm a bit miffed that I have nothing similar to carry me through the mug of July. Bar O Jerusalem and The Game, which I don't think I'm up for, post-colonial sensibilities or not.

(Must say, it's a good thing I couldn't get into the second book, A Monstrous Regiment of Women, and finished it last, because then for sure I wouldn't have read any of the others. Holmes has always wanted to kiss Mary violently, from the moment he first saw her as a seeming fifteen year old boy? I do not think so.)

Should either sit down with a door-stopper like A Suitable Boy, or start on that pile of picked up books that threatens to topple off the whatnot cabinet. A Suitable Boy is not portable so maybe Ackroyd it is.
( June reading )

Clive Barker Syndrome: unpleasant and unlikable

Someone's lj entry about preferring the less famous works of famous writers cited Brust's Agyar as more memorable than the Vlad books, or even most of Paarfi. Got it from the library, read twenty pages, and returned it to the library today even though the library is closed for Canada Day. Don't want that thing in my bag or my house longer than necessary. Now maybe if one keeps on, it turns into Lolita, unreliable narrator and all. But I couldn't read Lolita either. Some things are just inherently yuck, deconstructed or not.